


she sleeps alone (my heart wants to come home)

by bellemon



Series: Jonsa Week 2017 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Sansa Stark - Freeform, angst with an...ending for sure, jon softboi snow, lots of being soft for each other which is what we deserve, mmmm soft tension tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-08 11:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellemon/pseuds/bellemon
Summary: Sansa has long since been disabused of her romantic notions, but her soulmark becomes a beacon of...not hope, perhaps, but something at least substantiallybetterwhen she gets them on her first moon's blood.------ soulmate marks are your soulmate's last words to you in tattoo form.





	1. close as strangers

**Author's Note:**

> yeet this has been sitting around for years and i figured i oughta breathe new life into it by posting the first part and getting some feedback mayhapse. plus i felt like i wanted to post something after that shitshow finale :/. severely unpolished but i'll try to finish it before i go back and do some editing.

After receiving the harsh lesson of life when father lost his head, she’d thought that the tales of soulmates would turn out to have been lies. Or, at least, that she would not live long enough to even have one. But on the morning she flowered, the words seared themselves just above her hipbone. She hadn’t screamed, but when she woke up with a start from her nightmare of men with angry, burning hands, her sheets were soaked with blood, and her mouth was also full of it. She’d learnt to bite her lip when she was in pain, and it seemed the habit was also present when she slept. Arya had once challenged Sansa into closing her hand over a candle, to see how long she would last. She’d been able to hold it there for almost a minute  - still longer than Arya (or Jeyne, who’d stood there and expressed her protests very loudly) had expected she could - but she’d flinched away with a squeak after her arm began to tremble. 

For days after, the burn on her hand was sore. That is what the skin on her hip felt like - not searing pain, but a slight burning whenever her shift brushed against it. An aftermath sort of pain, which was quickly fading. Sansa paid it no mind. The thought of the queen finding out about her flowering took precedence, but her attempts to hide it were for naught. The minute Sandor Clegane entered the room, gruffly demanding what all the commotion was about, she felt her knees give out. She collapsed onto the trunk at the foot of her bed, all her hopes of the queen remaining unaware dashed. 

He looked at her, taking in the blood on her lip, on her sheets. There was no disgust in his eyes.  _ I imagine he’s not unfamiliar with the sight of blood,  _ Sansa thought, almost bitterly. She  _ wanted  _ to disgust him. She wanted to see a crack in his hardened exterior. She wanted to see him wrinkle his nose in distaste. It would have been her only consolation in getting caught. She wondered if he’d concede to her if she begged.  _ Please don’t tell her, please don’t let her make me marry  _ him. He’d saved her from the mob. Maybe he would pity her enough to save her from Joffrey, too.

But the Hound hadn’t  _ just  _ saved her. He’d also saved Joffrey, time and again. He was loyal to the Lannisters, and for that alone he would not see her beg. 

“The queen will want to know about that,” he moved to look at her bed. Sansa kept silent, staring at the floor dully, and Ser Clegane left without another word. 

The queen swept into her rooms a while later, after the maids came by to help her clean up. Not wanting any Lannister maids to see her naked, Sansa sent them away. She couldn’t stand to look at her body as she bathed and dried herself, placing the cloth that she’d been given between her legs to catch the blood.

“I’m sure you imagined this differently,” the queen intoned. Sansa couldn’t help feeling a pang at the truths that her words held. Yes, she had imagined this differently. She’d imagined joy at the prospect of being a woman, but now all she felt is a heavy, heavy dread, a soreness in her stomach, and the echoes of a burning at her hip. In the commotion, Sansa hadn’t had time to check the source of that particular pain. “But your flowering isn’t the only thing that must have happened today. Something special happens to a woman when she flowers, doesn’t it?”

Sansa stared at her, too busy trying to hide her anxiety to fathom what Cersei was hinting at. 

“Your words?” Cersei’s gaze was sharp, so sharp, like she was waiting for something. Suddenly, Sansa realized what the burning sensation was. Her mate’s words. She hadn’t even thought of it - when she woke up to find blood stuck to her thighs, she’d not been thinking how much she’d obsessed over it with Jeyne Poole, dreamily wondering what they would be. She’d been thinking about how bloody her sheets were, how someone would find out, and how she’d have to marry  _ Joffrey _ . “Do you have them? Mind you, not all get them. Only those who have mates.”

Sansa felt with a sudden, twisting defiance, that she didn’t  _ want  _ Cersei to know. She didn’t want her first time reading her mate’s words to be with  _ her _ . 

“No,” Sansa lied. “I don’t believe I do.”

Cersei pressed her lips together, her smile sweet but her eyes hard. “No worries, little dove. It’s not uncommon. Mine are a bunch of nonsense, anyway.”

 

\----

Sansa waited until nightfall to check the words by candlelight. They were black, stark against her skin, and written in a sort of scrawling handwriting. 

_ I just want you to know that my heart is yours, Sansa, and it will always be yours.  _

It wasn’t Joffrey, for sure. That was a relief - the gods were cruel, but not cruel enough for that. 

Sansa wondered what the words meant. Who would say them, and why. Why they would be the last words that her mate will ever say to her. She ran her fingers over them, read them again and again. They became her beacon.  _ One day, a man will say this to me. It won’t be Joffrey, and for that alone I might already love him. _

She knew better than to hope that her mate would be old and grey after spending a happy life with her, but there was still a part of her that  _ wished  _ it. The words certainly didn’t imply any sort of violent tragedy, so that must have been good. With her life left in shambles, was she not allowed to hope?

\-----

_ Could it be you?  _ she wondered, perhaps naively, when Sandor Clegane looked down at her and demanded a song from her. In his eyes she saw  _ fear,  _ so much fear, and desperation. Desperation to get away. And for something else, too. Desperation to be known and understood. But she couldn’t. She was too young, and too scared, and too sure that Stannis Baratheon was going to take the castle. 

_ I hope it will be you,  _ she wanted to tell Loras Tyrell when he took her hand and spoke of their wedding. In his eyes she saw an escape. In his eyes she saw how happy she might be, far away from King’s Landing. But the Lannisters wouldn’t let her have even that, and she was a fool to think they wouldn’t find out. 

_ Would I mind if it were you?  _ She found herself asking, when Tyrion Lannister told her he would not consummate the marriage. In his eyes she saw sadness and sweetness, and thought that maybe he was not the worst Lannister. But he was still a Lannister, and on the day of her escape, she only spared a small shred of regret that she was leaving the man who had been so kind to her. 

_ I wonder if it will be you,  _ she imagined telling Littlefinger on the day he spirited her away. In his eyes she saw desire, she saw a hunger that frightened her. And for that alone, she did not speak her words aloud. 

_ I fear it might be you,  _ she thought as Ramsay made a massacre of her body, his fingers bruising the skin where her soulmate tattoo resided. In his eyes, she saw a sadistic joy, and she just  _ knew  _ that if it were him, then the words at her hip would not be sincere. He’d use them as some sort of torture. She resolved, then, to make sure he’d never see them. The words were now scrawled over a dark, splotchy bruise, left there by his fingers on her wedding night. She made sure they stayed that way, grinding her knuckles down into the tender flesh to keep the bruise dark, and the words unnoticeable. Every time he paused to admire the mottled mess he’d made of her skin, she feared that he would see past the bruising and notice the words, but he didn’t. 

_ Cersei couldn’t have them,  _ she thought defiantly as the bastard of Bolton bit her neck and panted into her skin like a dog.  _ And neither can you.  _

 

\-----

The night before she jumped off the walls of Winterfell with Theon Greyjoy, she dreamt that she was stabbed. Beneath her ribcage, beside her spine, between her ribs. Then, once in the heart.  _ For the watch,  _ whispered a voice, and she woke up weeping, her tattoo itching.

She remembered nothing of the dream - nothing but the pain. 

\----

By the time Lady Brienne of Tarth came riding in to rescue her like a true knight from the songs, she’d stopped wondering who the words belonged to. She no longer wanted to know. 

\-----

Sansa didn’t know what to expect as she rode up to the gates with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. Her heart was racing. Would Jon remember her? Would he care, even if he did? Maybe if she was Arya. Maybe if she were Robb. But she was not either of them, she was simply  _ Sansa _ . The girl who’d turned her nose up at Jon Snow. 

Now he was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He’d risen high in their time apart, whilst all Sansa had to show for her journey were scars and broken dreams. 

The gate opened. Her heart raced faster, even as she rode in with her head held high, but whether it was from anxiety or anticipation, she couldn’t say. Men in furs surrounded them, covered in dirt. She steeled herself and dismounted, searching the crowd around them for a familiar face.

_ What if he’s gone? What if he’s dead, or lost beyond the wall?  _ Sansa knew the taste of disappointment well, but this would be the most biting of them. 

Her eyes flitted up, attracted by movement, and  her disappointment fell away. There he was, standing at the top of the stairs. He stepped back as if he’d been shot, pulling his hands back.  His eyes widened as if he were looking at a ghost. She couldn’t blame him, really. She must have looked a fright, with her pale cheeks, dark clothes, and unbrushed hair. 

He’d grown while they were apart, that was for sure. But his face was still familiar enough. He’d appeared many times in her dreams, along with Robb and Bran and Rickon and Arya and Father, and even though her dreams cast him without the broadened shoulders and matured features that he had today, she felt her heart jump. He was here, he was truly here. They may not have been close as children, but he was a piece of her childhood. He was a part of her life before the horrors took over. 

_ Jon,  _ she thought. She was too stunned to speak his name aloud. It felt too good to be true. 

Slowly, so slowly, he descended, his eyes never leaving her face. He was approaching her so sluggishly that she feared she would wake to find herself in Ramsay’s bed again. Her dreams of Robb rescuing her had always ended just as he burst through her door, or just as she leapt into his arms. She held her breath, terrified that she’d be disappointed once again. 

He stopped right in front of her, just an arm’s length away. For a moment longer, she waited for the other shoe to drop.

And then she could wait no more, and she threw herself forward. He seemed to anticipate her, rushing to catch her in his arms and lift her, his breath coming in short, relieved bursts. She leaned into him, pressed her cheek to his ear. The  _ smell  _ of him filled her nose. He’d been away too long to smell like the Winterfell of her dreams, but he smelt like leather and pine, and that was enough for her. 

Jon Snow was a piece of home. That in itself made him better than dreams. 

 


	2. i'll come home soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which I skim through s6 so I can get to the real canon divergent stuff

As they travelled and gathered bannermen, the bruises on Sansa’s body began to fade, clearing away to reveal her pale skin. Her eyes fell to the words on her hip, where her self-inflicted bruise was lighter, but not light enough. The words were still indistinguishable. 

Still, she remembered them by heart.  _ I just want you to know that my heart is yours, Sansa, and it will always be yours.  _

At night, she’d come to Jon’s tent to discuss their options and plan their next move. They never spoke of the horrors they’d both faced, although once Sansa returned to his tent to collect something she’d forgotten, and seen firsthand evidence of what he’d been through. 

She’d ducked back into his tent unannounced, not considering why she  _ should  _ announce herself, and then stopped abruptly when he turned around to look at her. 

His cloak was folded neatly on his bedroll, but his jerkin and undershirt were cast carelessly aside. 

His chest was bare. 

In the bright, cold mornings, Jon Snow was a leader, sharp and strong. But here, bare-chested and lit by the soft candlelight, Jon was just a boy. A ruffled boy with soft eyes and a tired frown, which were all too endearing.  Sansa couldn’t have turned away even if she tried. Her eyes immediately wandered down, and she felt a jolt at what she saw. 

Scars of old stab wounds lined his muscled abdomen. A gasp escaped her when she noticed the one on his chest, right above his heart.  _ For the watch.  _ She thought she remembered a voice, the feeling of a knife between her ribs, but the memory fell through her fingers like smoke. 

“Sansa…” 

With a start, she tore her eyes away from his scars, and she felt her cheeks burn with shame at the look on his face. Although he spoke her name softly, his eyes gave away his weariness. He was tired. Maybe even annoyed with her. And he did not want to hear any questions. 

She steeled herself, letting the shock in her eyes fall away. It was improper for her to be in his tent when he was like this, but he was her brother. And the damage was already done. “My, um, my gloves. I left them here. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...” She hoped her voice didn’t sound so awkward to him as it did her - usually, she was so good at keeping her voice steady. But it was late at night, and her effort was expended on trying to keep her eyes off of his chest so as not to shame him or herself any further. 

(Plus, he was  _ Jon _ . What was the harm?)

Jon blinked, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, of course. It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. Your gloves, they, um...I found them…” He turned away, so his back was facing her. “ I was going to bring them to you, I was just…” He trailed off again, walking to his bed roll. 

Sansa stared. Jon’s shoulders were broad, his back thick with muscle. Her eyes followed the line of his spine, curious and almost hungry. There was another scar by his spine, and...her eyes caught on a group of looping letters, just above the top of his breeches. Before she could read them, or begin to wonder at the handwriting, Jon was turning around again. He avoided her eyes as he walked towards her, holding her gloves as far from himself as possible. 

She’d never considered that Jon might have his own mate’s words. She’d never seen anyone’s words - not even her mother’s. Old Nan had once told her that it was a personal thing, something to be kept close to the heart. But now Sansa found herself wondering what Jon’s were. 

“Sansa?” Jon prompted, breaking her reverie. Sansa blinked, and then saw her gloves in his outstretched hand. He was still holding them at arm’s length, perhaps fearful that she’d come closer. 

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Sansa couldn’t help the heat in her cheeks. She grabbed the garments from his hand. She was so busy wondering at the words on Jon’s back that she didn’t notice the brush of their fingers, or Jon flinching away as if he’d been burnt. “Goodnight, Jon. For good, this time.”

Jon spared her a little laugh, but wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Goodnight, Sansa. Sleep well.”

After that, she made sure to never enter Jon’s tent unannounced again. 

* * *

 

Sansa and Jon rode side by side on their travels. Sometimes, he spoke to her, awkward and clipped, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile at his attempts at conversation. They would reminisce, sometimes. About Arya, about Bran, about Rickon. 

But never Robb. Never Theon, or father. And although those ghosts were left unmentioned, Sansa couldn’t help but dwell on them when she looked at Jon Snow. She remembered a day so long ago, when she’d been walking with Jeyne Poole and was ambushed by Jon, Robb, and Arya. 

The assault of snowballs had taken her off guard, but that was when she was still young enough to enjoy snowball fights. Jeyne was, too. They ran and hid behind a tree, clumps of snow dripping from their hair, screaming with fear. Soon, Theon Greyjoy joined the fray. Even at that age, Sansa resented Jon Snow out of respect and reverence for her mother, but when he’d switched sides out of fairness for Jeyne and Sansa, she hadn’t said a word. She’d even enjoyed it. It was only afterwards that she felt crushed with shame. 

An unknowing Ned had been walking past and accidentally caught a snowball in the face, and although Theon and Jeyne had fled the scene immediately after, understandably terrified, the Stark siblings were left behind to contest with their father’s ire. Instead, he’d turned on them with snowballs of his own, in a rare act of playfulness, and the day’s play only ended after Catelyn Stark caught them, carrying a toddling Bran with her.

It was hard to reconcile her memory of them that day, red-cheeked and full of joy, with the Jon and Sansa that rode together today. Father was gone, Bran and Arya lost to the world, Rickon’s life left in the hands of a madman. It seemed to Sansa that her and Jon would never laugh with such carefree hearts again. 

* * *

 

At the end of their rides, Jon would dismount, then come around his horse and help her down from her own horse. His hands were gentle as they cupped her waist, and as he easily lifted her, her hands would find his shoulders. Her hair brushed his face as she leaned over him and gracefully landed in the snow. 

When they stopped at Moat Cailin to ask for men, his hand landed in the wrong place, pressed into an area where a bruise was still tender. Sansa couldn’t help but flinch a little. Immediately, Jon drew his hand away as if she’d burned him, his eyes clouding over with guilt and unease. And something else - something like rage. Sansa wasn’t sure if she should be frightened or not. “Sansa-” he started. 

“It’s fine, Jon,” she replied, cutting him off. He hesitated, and Sansa turned to see if anyone had seen. The few people they always brought with them for protection were  much too busy unloading their belongings to spare them a glance. When she looked back at him, Jon was still watching her, his shoulders tense, his eyes unsure. “It’s fine,” she repeated, slipping off the horse by herself. She landed in the snow. 

Before he could say another word, Ser Davos swept towards them and interrupted. “Lord Snow, Lady Sansa, I am sorry to interrupt, but Lord Glover’s sent a man out to meet you.”

Reluctantly, Jon turned away. His voice, as always, was grave. “Bring us to him.” Sansa wasn’t sure if the heavy feeling in her stomach was regret that they were interrupted, or fear at the way he’d looked at her. 

Later, when they rode back to their encampment after being turned down, Sansa rode by Jon’s side as usual. The silence was thick, almost unbearable, but she continued to sit through it. 

It was at the end of the ride that she finally tired of it. Everyone but Sansa dismounted and began to pull their horses away. She saw Jon lingering by his mount, pretending to adjust his belt. For the first time in years, she felt free enough to roll her eyes, even as she felt a sharp jolt of….was that  _ fondness _ ? 

She blinked at him, for a moment shocked at how warm the sight of him standing there awkwardly made her feel. Then, she wiped the emotion away.  _ I should dismount by myself,  _ she thought.  _ That’s what he’s waiting for.  _

Instead, she said, “Aren’t you going to help me, Jon?” Her voice was imperious. It sounded like a command. But it made her feel just as naked as begging would. 

He looked up, too fast, then looked away. “Oh, yes. Of course. Just a second.” When he lifted his hands, his belt looked just the same as it had before. 

This time, he was careful where he placed his hands. And when she was safe on the ground, he immediately drew them away. Sansa began to step away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, under his breath. Just for her. It made her pause, and she felt her fingers twitch a little as the bruise on her hip began to itch. “I’m sorry that he did that to you.”

Sansa’s eyes flitted up to meet his. What could she say? His eyes were so soft. She felt transparent under his gaze. 

So she nodded. It was the most honest thing that she could do without giving anything away. And she walked away.

They continued like that - at the end of their rides, he’d help her from her mount, and she’d  let him. No more incidents. No more strangeness. 

If his hands ever lingered on her waist, or if his eyes ever closed and his breath caught when her hair brushed his skin, no one seemed to notice. If she ever held onto his shoulders a little too tightly, or let herself lean into him too closely, no one seemed to care.

* * *

 

“I’m not going back there alive. Do you understand me?” Sansa snapped at Jon the night before the battle. She would not give Ramsay another chance to be the owner of those words. Never, never. 

His face fell, his anger fizzling out. “I won’t  _ ever  _ let him touch you again,” he paused, staring at her with such intensity. In his eyes, she saw a softness she’d not seen anywhere else. She saw compassion. And that frightened her just as much as Littlefinger’s hunger did. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

Sansa’s skin felt like it was burning under his gaze. Her heart raced from both adrenaline and frustration, and also yearning. Yearning to believe him, to believe that he  _ could  _ protect her. But father had promised the same, once upon a time. So had Robb. One had died before he could make good on it, and the other had simply chosen not to. “No one can protect me,” she snapped, even though a part of her wanted to run and embrace him. It was the part of her that still yearned for love and warmth, even though the world had turned her frigid. “No one can protect anyone.”

She left before she could see the look on his face, and wondered if those were the last words she’d ever say to Jon Snow. The thought made her quiver. 

She did not sleep that night. It was desperation that led her to write the letter, her fingers shaking. Jon wasn’t  _ listening  _ to her. As much as she wanted to, she wasn’t sure if he would listen to her about this, either. She couldn’t risk it. She knew nothing of battles, but she did know that the element of surprise was worth  _ something _ . 

_ I was wrong. We need the men. Please, save me. _

_ -Sansa _

 

It was exactly what Littlefinger needed to stoke his ego, exactly what Jon needed to save Winterfell.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

* * *

 

Sansa marched away from a screaming Ramsay, her hands bloodless but her her heart dark with murder. The tears didn’t start coming until she was climbing the stairs to her room - silent, salty tears sliding down her cheeks. Sobbing was something she’d left behind in her second marriage bed. 

_ Why am I crying?  _ She thought wonderingly.  _ He wasn’t the first. I killed Joffrey, too, by carrying his poison. I killed Dontos by letting him save me. And before that, before all that, I killed Father with my dreams. Why am I crying for a man I wanted dead?  _

Perhaps she wept for ghosts. In her mind, Robb and Theon ran up these stairs. Theon was young with light in his eyes. Robb was pink-cheeked and alive.  In her mind, a young Arya chased them. Vivid and real and  _ present. I miss you,  _ she told the ghosts as they ran past. The tears fell harder. 

She shouldn’t have been surprised when Jon Snow emerged at the top of the stairs, but it shocked her all the same. For a moment, she considered running away, down the stairs and into some other empty bedroom, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Her legs were sore from the hard ride, her eyes were drooping from the long day, and she’d vowed to herself as she watched Ramsay be torn apart that she’d never need to flee anyone in these halls again. Winterfell was her home. She refused to be frightened. 

Still, she felt entirely too naked. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks flushed, and the tears were falling, falling, falling, in an unrelenting stream. 

Jon must have been meaning to come down the stairs - maybe to stroll, maybe to search for someone, she couldn’t be sure - but he paused abruptly when he saw her. She did too. 

“Sansa,” he said. It was her name, but it was so soft. Softer than he’d ever said it. It sounded like an apology.  _ Sorry that I’m crying? Sorry that Ramsay did this to me? Sorry for  _ what,  _ Jon?  _

Silence filled the staircase. Jon’s eyes searched Sansa’s face. Sansa watched the torchlight send a flickering shadow of Jon across the wall, tall and dark. She didn’t dare speak a word. If she opened her mouth, she would start sobbing. 

“Sansa,” he said her name again. 

The tears began to fall harder. A sob caught in her throat, got choked down. Why did he have to say it like that? Why did he have to say it with so much tenderness, when she knew that he would end up disappointing her, too?

But then - he was coming down the stairs, one at a time and then two at a time and then she was in his arms, collapsing against him, and letting her tears run onto his muddied, bloodied neck. 

_ Who do I weep for?  _ She wondered.  _ I weep for us. I weep for a bloodless Jon Snow.  _

_ I weep for an innocent Sansa Stark.  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> lmk how you feel!
> 
> *casually hums 5sos bc i loved their angsty songs when i started writing this and tbh i still do*


End file.
